Always
by DiamondFyre1
Summary: [AU] Kagome's the occupant of a boarding school in the heart of New York City, and she's facing astounding relevations regarding the intensity of her feelings toward her "soulmate" Inuyasha. Three shot parody to "Return to Where We First Met" IK


A/N: Wow, I haven't written in ages, and I must say it's good to be back. If you're here looking for an update on my other stories..well .. you're going to be a lil bit disappointed. grimaces apologetically High school is a lot more hectic then I'd figured it to be and I apologize in advance for slow updates, though I'm planning on finishing this fairly quickly - I'm anticipating it to be a mere three chapters long.

Please read and review!

Always

Chapter One: Soulmates

"It's not rocket science, it's pronunciation," she crooked her nose in a manner of what she'd consider to be matter-of-fact, what I'd consider utter arrogance, down toward the instigator of what she considered to be a pointless query, widening her eyes in mild irritation in a vain attempt to appear menacing through her shadowy blue spectacles, applying yet another reason to groan onto a list that stretched far past the boundaries of our cramped "learning environment". "Now class, just repeat after me and at least try to pay attention to the vowel usage. Let's try this again," she cleared her throat for emphasis though she sounded more like an elephant without a watering hole, or maybe a crackpot hobo from the subways of the Big Apple. Random thought, why call it the big apple? Not only is it a relatively small city (especially taking into account its massive population let's just say I wouldn't recommend it to someone who is even mildly claustrophobic), but it's not an apple! I understand it's probably some metaphor or historical reference of some kind that I supposedly learned in U.S History and didn't retain due to the fact that I'm not so pathetic to base the majority of my life around pointless statistics, but it's my home state for crying out loud, and you'd think I'd at least know if it was well recognized for its non-existent apple surplus, which it obviously isn't, lest I wouldn't be asking this question.

"Salut? Je M'apple Janine. Savva?" a chorus of monotonous responses in a poorly imitated accent followed not soon after, and I stifled my giggles at the thought of the reactions of French natives – such foreigners would almost surely be forced by a mob of angry French citizens on the nearest musty Subway and shipped back to the states so fast the train would fly off the tracks and my poor, deserted classmates would be abandoned at the bottom of a less then fragrant ditch in some remote city, ignored by all but passing cows and devoured by ravenous cannibals. I almost pitied the French, seeing as we spend at least two hours a day completely butchering their language, but I honestly see no tangible reason to offer foreign language as a mandatory course to begin with, so the school board's to blame if anyone. The only reason I signed up for French was because I already speak Spanish fluently (thanks to my years spent in the "big Snapple" (I find that name much more appropriate, you can locate one of those machines on nearly ever street corner), and though I vigorously pleaded otherwise, they wouldn't permit me to take the course. I should've pretended to not speak an ounce of Spanish, and then ace the course while acting as nothing more then a mere quick learner. Random note: must brush up on my common sense.

M'me Noel's lavender eyes blinked in exasperation as she lay a manicured hand deftly against the olive blackboard, which isn't black to begin with, so why christen it that? Her tailored brown hair pulled strictly back in a bun accentuates her neon blonde highlights, and while she looks like a runaway circus clown I don't dare tell her so, for fear of both my life and the ownership of my scholarship. She truly does know how to give off the impression of a Pomeranian, but a pedicured Pomeranian nonetheless, which keeps her students from pushing her to her limits, they've glimpsed her power, and believe me, it's not a sight you'd wish upon your siblings, unless you're a particularly heinous and/or morbid individual, and should that be the case, I bid you to take a long walk off a five foot pier. Pompous people such as herself seriously inflict damage upon my sensitive nerves, but I bat away my ongoing irritation as she primly situates herself upon her turquoise velvet desk chair, neatly crossing her ankles beneath her slight frame and busying herself with miscellaneous paperwork, or at least giving off a half-assed impression. I could almost see the "Dear Agnes" from my carefully chosen spot two seats off the right corner within the recesses of the fifth row, and, oh dear god she's adding calligraphy to it.

The room quickly shifts into utter pandemonium, though subtle enough not to attract any unwanted attention from prying eyes of the administration roaming the hallways or even to alert M'me Noel of our endeavors. I beckoned to Inuyasha with my index finger and after rolling his pupils up into the recesses of his eyelids (he knows just how severely it grosses me out, the first time he tried something that barbaric I slapped him). Actually, that little scenario occurred the very first time we met...

...O.O...

"Excuse me?" an impatient hand thumped upon his shoulder, currently squared in defiance. "Please? I only got here yesterday, and I don't know where Dorm 5 is. Could you maybe point me in the right direction?" slowly he whirled around and hardened amber orbs fixed upon my ordinary chocolate pupils, narrowing in sheer defiance and suspicion, though for what I couldn't fathom. His flowing white hair traveled down his back, spreading like wildfire across his rear (not that I was examining it or anything..., hey don't give me that expression!), though he looked far from elderly. What struck me as even more peculiar was that his locks appeared entirely natural; no dye seemed capable of penetrating this fortress he unknowingly cast upon himself. Of course, the oddest feature of all were the two triangular puppy ears that perked up from the depths of his pale locks, and they swiveled in my direction, twitching every few moments when a particularly noisy ruckus was caused by a clumsy student or a snort of laughter emitted from the varsity cheerleaders sipping Fanta (of course it was justified by being identified by 50 year old men scattered throughout the commercials as "reduced fat Fanta) throughout the clustered hallways.

After making his assessment of me (which I hadn't even been the recipient of a list of criteria for, this guy had never encountered me in his life), he leaned nonchalantly against a nearby pillar and shrugged his shoulders before allowing his gravelly tone to ring throughout my sensitive ears, and I shielded them with my raven hair, currently matted and dancing about my cheeks. "I could, but I'm not going to," his gaze left mine and traveled to the misc. students clattering down the halls, their flip flops connecting with the ground to an unsteady beat only they could differentiate between. My opinion of this guy was pretty much cemented by this point, but my options were fairly limited. When in doubt, whimper and pout.

"Pleeeeeease?" I clasped my wrists before my chest and withdrew my lower lip, allowing it to overlap my teeth. "I don't want to make a bad first impression, and I've got pre-algebra next period! Math is my worst subject anyway; can you just help me out?" I lowered my face toward the tiled floorway, blinking innocently a few times as I shuffled my feet gravely, awaiting his answer. He scrunched up his face in mock concentration for a few moments before thrusting his head sideways, his posture conveying his irritation.

"Nah, I'm good," he spat, barely missing the toes of my sandy loafers, and I mustered up my most menacing scowl and administered it upon him, though he seemed entirely unaffected as he stalked off in the opposite direction toward a cluster of older boys. If I had any bright ideas, now would probably be a good time to execute them.

"If you're trying to be rebellious, you're not doing a very good job," I smirked haughtily and crossed my arms smugly against my chest, beaming on the inside as he whirled around in fury, his expression livid as he pounded toward me, though I was far from frightened. Now that I knew what buttons to push, he would become easy prey.

"Fuck off," my shock must've been apparent because he seemed amused with my reaction. He raised an eyebrow cockily, "Was that rebellious enough for 'ya?" My fists clenched against my sides, and I was utterly surprised at the sheer fury this boy had the capacity to invoke in me, rarely did I become this volatile, not to mention bold. I sauntered up to him with a bounce in my step, my skirt swishing in time to the inaudible rhythm of my shoes as they clicked across the tile, my charcoal hair dancing across my cheeks as I beamed amiably up at him, my toes scuffing the surface of the ground as I tweaked his left ear curiously, marveling at its softness for a moment before taking the opportunity to glance at Inuyasha's face, which was frozen in utter horror as his ears twitched involuntarily. I giggled nervously and allowed a pregnant pause to pass, amplifying the impending drama of my final line.

"Naww, you're just an adorable wittle puppy," I cooed, patting him atop his skull a few times for good measure before I did the unthinkable, especially for me though at the time it seemed completely natural, if only for the sake of comedy.

I leaned up and kissed him on the nose, the way you would a furry little mutt, and strolled off in the opposite direction toward the guidance counselors (directions were still required, to my dismay) office, whistling something akin to the victory tune of FFX – an old favorite video-game of mine from my days of carefree immaturity, completely oblivious to the impending horror I was to endure as his sidled up to me, his lips twisted in an arrogant scowl and the tips of his ears shifting to a rather unbecoming crimson shade. I smiled sweetly, sure he was only irked at the idea of being called a puppy, heck, it was probably an insult that had haunted him through his childhood years (what with kids becoming increasingly cruel these days), though surprisingly I only felt a twinge of guilt as his burly figure steadily filled the gap between my own, slowly boxing me into a corner as I struggled to locate an escape route. His eyes narrowed into sinful glee and his lips quirked upwards in a mischievous smirk. I was forced backwards, and as I retreated I glanced around warily, searching for either aide or idea, though none came and I allowed my mind to retreat into the recesses of hopelessness.

Now I wasn't very clear on the logistics of sex, but I knew enough to know that it probably isn't a very intelligent notion to allow some guy wearing a bandana to force you into a corner, and I gulped in anticipation and squeezed my doey eyes shut as my spine came in contact with the prickly surface of chipping cream wallpaper. Nervously I propped one eye open to the point that my gaze could barely qualify for a squint, and I shuddered involuntarily as I discovered his errant grin had only widened in the course of a few seconds. I balled my shaking palms into fists and curled them beneath my chest, allowing a timid gulp to pass my lips as I anxiously waited for any opportune moment – to strike, escape, or just scream bloody murder.

Then he did the very last thing I'd possibly expected him to do, or even be capable of doing.

He brought a single clawed fist to lie harmlessly under his armpit and bore down upon it with the weight of his entire arm, causing a deafening boom to erupt through my sensitive ears, and I sunk to the floor silently, resting tranquilly on my knees as I shook in an apparent mixture of both relief and anxiety, my nerves rattled from the vociferous blast. I slapped myself inwardly, my conscience shaking its head with an irritated sigh at my own stupidity. I mean for crying out loud, the guy was a twelve year old schoolboy, not some sort of horny rapist.

But then again, I'd always been exceptionally paranoid regarding certain unmentionable subjects.

I rose on shaky legs, stumbling slightly over the evident crack in the otherwise flawless ground and faced him, my eyes narrowing in irritation for executing such a barbaric and ridiculously overrated stunt, not to mention frightening me half to death. So I did the only reasonable thing that currently drifted through my mind. I slapped him right across the cheek, shaking in suppressed mirth as he drew back in apparent shock at my endeavors, his eyes widening in astonishment and his lips pursed in a scowl as I neatly ducked under his armpit and stalked away, my head carried high and my books tucked neatly beneath my chest as I sauntered delicately away, relishing his final expression of shock and basking in personal glory.

Score one for Kagome.

Since then, enduring Inuyasha has been, well, an intriguing experience to say the least. For approximately a year following that trivial incident, we were practically engaging in guerilla warfare. He had a relatively large "army", but within a few months my ranks had increased as well, and I had a suitable legion to defend myself with. Mindless practical jokes were being executed at every corner, and you never knew whether or not it was safe to enter your dormitory without a bucket teetering on your doorway, threatening to engulf you in its watery depths, or whether you'd find yourself situated atop a pile of used gum allegedly carelessly forgotten by the seat's previous occupant.

Eventually one of our more amiable instructors, Miroku (age 19, far from maturing in any way shape or form. His preferred hobby is sneaking up behind the elder members of our institution and stroking their behinds, usually earning a well deserved smack on the cheek, or in ASB president Sango T.'s case, a visit to the administration. They never fired him, however, much to Sango's dismay, only because the majority of the school's population adored him for his brilliant contemporary teaching methods, which provided a stark contrast to the standard bookwork their more primitive teachers prided themselves on) caught wind of the vicious behavior executed by the two quarreling parties and decided now was a good a time as any to rectify the situation. So, in his usual Miroku-ish form, he formulated a plan that would establish the school's violence-free ideals while still laying the groundwork for what he perceived could still be a beautiful friendship.

In short, he locked us in the cafeteria overnight to monitor what he would consider "progress", though we christened it "massacre". Of course if the administration ever discovered Miroku's ingenious plots, the stealthy instructor would have been fired immediately, but Miroku took extra precautions not to be discovered. For instance, he was never associated with the activity itself, preferring to remain as the brains of the operation, never soiling his hands with the brunt of his self-inflicted scenarios. Instead, he hired a loyal student who often engaged in his various schemes to perform the dirty deed, and this instance was no exception. Mushin Severa, Miroku's sidekick and personal assistant in concocting dirty schemes, sent both Inuyasha and I invitations to a special club meeting taking place at exactly 6 P.M on the cafeteria stage, and we were to be prompt or else miss the opportunity altogether. He flourished the notes with increasingly long adjectives, lavishing us with compliments, achievements, and doing a fantastic job of making it sound like we truly were to be recognized for our various aptitudes. Of course Inuyasha (with his abnormally large head) became all cocky and spent the remainder of the afternoon strutting about, though telling no one of his achievement (for Miroku's benefit, sadly), while I subsequently spent the afternoon humbly brooding about, going about my daily monotonous routine, and.... Planning my acceptance speech...

Well all right. So we both have enormous heads, but who could resist such an offer?

Anyhow, we showed up at the exact location at equivalent moments, and neither of us are as slow as the other believes – we knew almost immediately that it was a setup, probably devised by a third "gang" of sorts in an attempt to overthrow the both of us (I suppose you could say it was, though in a more subtle form). Livid, we trampled toward the door in a crumpled heap, constantly pushing one another out of our way, and simultaneously reached for the circular brass knob – our ticket to freedom. To our dismay we discovered it'd been locked after the culprit's departure, and we knew enough about Miroku to have a fairly good perception on just who the perpetrator of this incredibly moronic scheme had been – though (as was his usual) his tracks were covered so well that even a fingerprinting kit couldn't have granted us the evidence we needed. In short (as Inuyasha so bluntly put it) we were majorly screwed.

Initially we were constantly bickering, and as we both have somewhat violent tendencies (though, sadly, we both possessed the knowledge that he could overtake me any time he wished, the only thing keeping him from it was expulsion, though I have him bested in the cunning department), we couldn't keep from expressing our tentative doubts – it obviously hadn't been a very in depth plot on Miroku's plot unless of course he was counting on the fact that we'd kill each other off, bestowing him with the opportunity to harness our power and use us as drastic turnovers onto the side of utter evil, bringing us back to life with creepy voodoo powers and turning us into everlasting zombies!

Obviously, that was Inuyasha's theory, and though mine was slightly more mundane, it wasn't much more believable, unless you were an eighty year old hermit crab residing within the projects of Death Valley. We speculated on what Miroku thought exactly was going to happen between us that evening and instantly blanched at the implication. Though compatible discussions hadn't exactly been on the agenda, we couldn't help but voice our synchronized viewpoints aloud – had that even occurred to the less then pure schoolteacher? No soon had the words passed my rather dry lips (our water supply had long since passed) that the both of us convulsed in shared laughter on the musty tiled floor (which by the way was crawling with ants and other miscellaneous insects, they seriously need to hire a proficient exterminating team) – of course he had, this is Miroku we were referring to. This sort of scheme was a custom Miroku setup to get two students who he believed compatible to sleep with one another – he'd done this sort of thing numerous times though it rarely worked out, and the few times it did actually lead to an intimate relationship, it was always abolished within a two day time span. Such was an almost routine existence for our peers, and none had ever questioned Miroku's scheming desires.

We spent the remainder of the evening acting out ridiculous plays (usually ones that would've gotten us expelled, or at least resulted in a serious dent in our monthly allowances) on the cafeteria stage, using the miscellaneous props strewn about to give us our desired effects, which usually resulted in absurd porn spoofs (though don't fret, we weren't actually doing anything appropriate, that's why they're defined as 'spoofs'). Miroku didn't get his wish after all, though we gained something far more valuable – a friendship that could last us for all eternity – or at least until we suffered amnesia and forgot one another's existence (Inuyasha's sentiment, of course). We even had the audacity to share half a moldy pizza, a survival of a three hour soccer game with a backpack still attached to his back and thumping melodically every few seconds, though why Inuyasha was playing soccer with his backpack on is an unsolved mystery even to the present day. Frankly, I don't care to know, though I've developed quite a few less then appropriate theories regarding the subject. (Soccer my ass, for instance, if you catch my drift).

The following morning we were let out by a mob of third grade students hoping to catch an early breakfast, their eyes wide as they passed us and whispered to one another about how yet another couple had been caught in the act of 'naughty' things (this last part was said in hushed whispers, as if Zeus would strike them down with lightning if the word 'sex' was ever relinquished from the depths of their throats). They flinched warily away from us, as if we were contagious, and both Inuyasha and I barely succeeded in stifling our giggles until the door finally creaked shut, and the retreating footsteps of a constipated third grader could be echoing through the depths of the nearly empty hallways.

After that, everything changed completely.

Inuyasha and I became as close as two people could possibly get, though not physically (yes this is directed at Miroku in particular, but we all know that he isn't the only pervert residing on the grounds, so we apologize in crushing your hopes), much to the disappointment of our eagerly feuding "armies", who we dismissed nonchalantly and continued about our way. Of course the warfare continued, just not nearly as severe as our "troops" didn't possess the capacity to form diabolical schemes, and eventually the most you had to worry about was a broken pencil rolling harmlessly underneath your desk or a chewed eraser coincidentally lodging yourself in the folds of your skirt. Miroku was certainly pleased with what he considered "progress" (he assumed the worst, obviously, since the events of the night were never relayed to him) and the majority of our friends practically started planning our wedding, which was more of a nuisance then anything.

Our relationship is difficult to explain, which can be irritating when the majority of your friends are trying to decide between steak and duck for the wedding menu (steak obviously, Hans Christen Andersen was my favorite author as a child – we can't devour the Ugly Little Duckling!) We aren't dating, but we're definitely not 'just casual friends'. I suppose you could call us 'best friends', but I think the term 'soul mates' portrays us better, just not in the conventional sense. We aren't interested in one another romantically, though we're constantly being pushed in that direction by countless fans of our non-existent romance. I truly believe that we're meant to be together, just not necessarily as a couple, more so as siblings, though that doesn't illustrate it either, I certainly don't see Inuyasha as a surrogate brother. Gah, this is difficult to relay to someone who's probably already making the assumption that my one ambition in life is to wed and bed Inuyasha, and that couldn't be farther from the truth.

I think the way Inuyasha put it was best (when questioned for the umpteenth time regarding the exact date and location of our wedding or in Miroku's case, our honeymoon, is he planning to set up video equipment or something? I wouldn't put such an endeavor past him...): It's not fucking like that, okay? Quit degrading it, shallow bitch, I'm sick of all your crap. There's more then one way to care about someone ya know.

Need a translation? I almost did, but I'm used to the position of the receiving end regarding his repetitive potty mouth remarks. I love Inuyasha, unconditionally, though the love I have for him can't be boxed into a category. It's deeper then that, as appallingly sappy as this may sound (uncharacteristic for me, actually, as evidenced by my rather extreme lack of interest in terms of anything even remotely related to the romance department), it's more meaningful, at least to me, then any sort of romantic love. I've only had two boyfriends in the course of my lifetime, and I can comfortably say that while the companionship was nice, I'd prefer Inuyasha any day – just not in that environment. Neither of us want to proceed romantically because we don't want to risk ruining what we already have – a bond that holds true no matter what, and we're perfectly content as we are. There's no tangible reason for us to relinquish that bond in exchange for passionate snogging. It isn't worth it to either of us, and frankly, we're not in that stage of our lives at the moment.

Everyone thinks I'm in denial, but if anything our relationship is clearer to me then the majority of my life's other aspects. I love Inuyasha, but I'm not in love with him, and though we've never spoken about it (we're always too embarrassed to bring the subject up, especially amongst the watchful eyes of our "fanclub"), I'm willing to bet his money that he feels the same way (oh please, I'm not that confident. Besides, I love it when the poster child for insufferable arrogance is forced to the lowly position of "moocher"). Our relationship doesn't need that entirely unfamiliar aspect added for no tangible reason other then physical attraction, and we're not willing to put our friendship on the line for something we both consider to be fruitless and insignificant on the larger scale of things. End of story.

...O.O...

"OK, so we're supposed to translate these French verbs," I glanced at the rumpled sheet perched harmlessly before me on the wooden surface of my school desk with a raised eyebrow and coolly retrieved my ink supply from its corner and unscrewed the lid, dipping my pen in with a flourish before returning to the impending task. "Wait a second; she hasn't given us the definition of any of these! Maybe I was just zoning out again, did you write them down Inuyasha?" I turned to glance at my companion who was currently trying to decipher the maximum amount of times he could spin around in his chair before he became too dizzy to walk straight. "Inuyasha, are you even listening to me?" I sighed in sheer frustration and my eyebrows drew together in pure exasperation as he turned quizzically to face me, his expressions clearly writing off my aggravation as "P.M.S" before he swung toward me, crossing his legs sloppily beneath his frame and tapping his pen on the blackened corner of my desk, then proceeding to engrave my desk with one of his more popular sentiments – Full of Shit. Oh dear, M'me Noel will be less then appreciative of her early Christmas surprise.

"Sure thing. This," he pointed to the first word on the page, "Translates to 'fuck'," he glanced at me to see if I grasped his oh-so-intense concepts. "This," he gestured toward the second word, "translates to "Kikyo". In conclusion," he could already see the dawning expression begin to surface on my face as I glared stonily toward him, "you are to pack your bags, for you've just won an all expense trip to make raunchy lesbian porn with Kikyo, Sango, and a packet of beef jerky which will eventually be publicized on national television for Miroku to videotape and pawn off as special limited edition European porn. And the winning location is...," he paused and pulled out his quill pen, jotting something down on the back of his palm that resembled the word Iceland before continuing with a fake address that I assumed I was supposed to replicate. My icy glare spoke volumes of my inner sentiments, and I turned back toward our assignment, which I was beginning to get the feeling I'd be doing the majority of the work on.

"Inuyasha, be serious for a minute. Did you write the verbs down or not?" I blanched at his blank look before my face broke into a suppressed smile. "Give the correct answer and I'll give a dog a bone, if you catch my drift," I winked saucily and he chuckled at my blatant sexual reference before glancing at the assignment, wrenching my pencil out of my grasp and filled in every last blank with what I assumed to be the correct answer, they all certainly appeared logical enough. I rolled my eyes in frustration at the idiotic comments I'd been forced to endure, Inuyasha has the intelligence to run his own stock franchise, but not the social I.Q or the dedication to even make an attempt. Whenever I'm "graced" with his presence during partner work, our predictable routine is as follows: Assignment is confusing, Inuyasha acts clueless, I yell at Inuyasha, he stalks off and writes down fifty different pick up lines and delivers them to me, each in a separate language, I yell at Inuyasha some more, and we complete the assignment the day before it's due and grab ourselves a mocha. As irritating as it can be, it provides a great way to get free coffee, which usually sustains me until our weekly Strip Poker Saturday.

Yes, our group is probably legally insane, and we've been referred to as such numerous times. I don't mind, frankly, ever since I met Inuyasha I don't think I'll ever revert to the poster mousy child I'd once been identified as. Whether or not this is a positive or negative revelation I can't be sure, but then again I'm rarely sure when most anything concerns Inuyasha, directly or indirectly.

The bell tolls above our heads and we glance around as various students gather their belongings, pencils clattering in dozens of different tones, almost as if in an attempt to stay musically in tune, though of course they never succeed. Groups file out of the room in no particular order, Inuyasha and I leaning nonchalantly back in our "assigned seats" until the entirety of the population has cleared out, leaving us ample opportunity to screw around with Mme Noel a bit as we slowly stuff our books into our bags, purposely chucking our pencils halfway across the dampened floor (for we've made sure to accidentally knock our canteens from their spots dangerously teetering on the corners of our workspace) floor and exaggeratedly stooping down to retrieve them, Mme Noel's tongue clicking impatiently as her foot taps steadily against the doorway. A full five minutes later, after several reprimands and threats of castration (though masked enough to keep her from expulsion) we saunter casually from the room, listening intently as the door slams purposefully in our wake and the audible mutterings of Mme Noel retreating down the hallway, the clattering of her boots resembling that of a locomotive engine readying itself for a difficult journey. We chuckle harmoniously before we link arms and set off on what I personally consider to be a journey of incredible intricacy, though the rewards are bountiful and taste especially noteworthy when dunked in ketchup.

Negotiating the depths of the planet's most hectic cafeteria.


End file.
